


She was virtuous. And he was naive.

by Handfulofdust



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: AU Undiscovered Country didn't happen, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, F/M, Friends With Benefits, I might figure out what this is eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-30 18:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17833991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Handfulofdust/pseuds/Handfulofdust
Summary: It was about a month ago Detective Reyes noticed the pattern. The third person in a month that wound up dead in Bellevue on a Tuesday. The tox screen on each had come back as cyanide poisoning.OR: Rafael Barba, EADA New York County Homicide Division, et. al. VS What is surely not at all a serial killer (hint: it might be a serial killer)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I am writing a case fic and it actually has very little to do with SVU but here we are. Due to the nature of this there are more explicit references to various crime than I usually include in my stories (including homicide and hate crime), but I don't think it's anything more than what SVU would show.

Tuesdays were the thick of it, usually - somehow. When he’d moved to homicide he’d had no idea about Tuesdays. One of the detectives he worked with had a theory that it had something to do with being so fed up on Mondays that you kill people. Another said it was the universe’s way of breaking up the week.

Fiona told them it was all crap. Nothing especially interesting happened on a Tuesday. Or for that matter on a Thursday. Crime didn’t stop or start. What they were seeing was a trick of the numbers.

Fiona Masters was particularly no nonsense when it came to patterns. You had to prove to her it was more than coincidence.

Still, it seemed an awful lot of bodies washed up on Tuesday mornings.

Washed up was the wrong term. They didn’t all come out of the East River nor the Hudson. Just - a lot of it had to do with water on Tuesdays.

The thing they don’t tell you about homicide is a lot of it ends up being suicide, or genuine accidental death, or drive-by shootings with no real understanding of culprit. Yes, even in Manhattan.

When he was in Brooklyn he worked so many different kinds of cases that part never really jumped out at him. To him they were easy, cut and dry - the murdered and the murderer. They were almost too easy. Too black and white. He liked finding the gray areas and turning them into provable fact.

Until he found the gray areas a little too colorful. Until the losses started weighing a little too heavily. Until he’d completely lost the ability to remain objective with Drew Householder.

Before that he thought he could handle the colors.

He’d done the right thing, really. He’d called in a few favors, got the court to fast track a decision, citing the well-being of the mother. The argument he’d used was getting this tied up in the legal system was inflicting undue pain and suffering on both the parents and the child.

He was really afraid that if the court didn’t allow Maggie Householder to take her son off life support, she was going to do it anyway. He was afraid someone was going to do it anyway. Maybe even himself.

Even though the judge had listened and the doctors had testified, even though it allowed him an out where no one went to jail, it still felt hollow.

It wasn’t just a place where the law had no business. It was a place with no right answer. There was no victory to be won there.

Two parents had to choose whether to end their baby’s life or keep him in pain in hopes they could one day make it better. Neither decision absolves you from guilt.

So, in the end, he’d gotten a transfer to Homicide. Jack said they needed an Executive ADA anyway and he needed to get back to something easier. Something with more defined answers. Something with less colors.

The thing he hadn’t realized about homicide at the time was it was only his part that was easy. And really that was only if everything else fell into place.

Prosecuting homicide is cut and dry. Finding the evidence to fit, catching the murderer? It’s nothing but grays. Dull, lifeless, interminable grays. 

It was about a month ago Detective Reyes noticed the pattern. The third person in a month had wound up dead in Bellevue on a Tuesday. The tox screen on each had come back as cyanide poisoning.

The crime lab on each had confirmed it as potassium cyanide. No one knew where it was coming from.

Fiona insisted the Tuesday and the Bellevue parts were just coincidences. Symptomatic of larger factors you’d need an advanced mathematics degree to explain.

Even she couldn’t shake the potassium cyanide.

Today - this Tuesday - a sixth person had died in a hospital after complaining of nausea and vertigo. They only needed the tox screen to confirm what they already knew.

Someone was randomly poisoning something with potassium cyanide and there was no telling who was at risk. It wasn’t just a serial killer. Maybe.

So much for starting over with black and white. 

* * *

He's only been in homicide for six months. He doesn’t know these guys that well yet. Though he had successfully been able to not make a total ass of himself at first go round. Progress.

Four detectives, one sergeant, and a precinct captain who lets the sergeant do whatever she wants. Captain Erickson has his hands full with other crime and Masters runs a tight ship.

He has no idea what is going on in anyone’s life and he prefers it that way. He prefers not to get attached. Hell, he doesn’t even know Reyes’ first name.

“Hey Barba,” Li calls at him when he walks in one afternoon with lunch. “Miller’s got a whack job theory about these Tuesday murders.”

“It’s not a whack job theory, Jen!” Lou calls from the coffee bar.

She rolls her eyes. Lou Miller is four years out from collecting his pension. He’s seen things and is fond of telling everyone about them. He also could rival Munch in his conspiracy theories.

Jen Li has been in homicide for three years. She hasn’t been broken down by the bastards - yet.

“Miller thinks the cyanide’s got something to do with the hospitals,” she whispers, eyeing the back of her partner as he ambles to get sugar.

“I thought Masters ruled that out,” he questions, glancing toward the board in the middle of the squad room.

“Masters doesn’t believe in patterns,” Li jokes as Reyes circles the word TUESDAY at the bottom of the whiteboard. She leans over conspiratorially. “Don’t tell Lou, but he might be onto something.”

He manages a smile. There’s absolutely nothing he can do right now. Until they come up with a lead, or need a warrant, or find a pattern even Fiona would believe, he’s useless.

He wouldn’t go so far as to say he misses SVU - but knowing, most of the time, who the players were up front was a different animal. Person A accuses Person B - prove it or don’t. Though that characterization is like saying murder is: Person A killed Person B - prove it or don’t. No case is that simple.

He doesn’t miss that part, if he’s being honest. He misses being part of the team. It’s not like they hate him here and he thinks he likes most of them, but he misses the shorthand. He misses the jokes.

He misses seeing Liv every day.

“You guys keep stabbing away at it and let me know when there’s something we can prove.”

Li nods, pulling her chair closer to her computer and pouring over the tox screen reports for what he thinks may be the hundredth time. Though its possible that may just be the amount of times he’s tried to find something in one he can take to a judge.

He makes his way toward his intended target - Masters’ office.

She’s in there. Her TV is tuned to NY1. Medical journals opened to various articles on cyanide poisoning are strewn across her desk.

A glimpse at her computer shows she’s in the middle of background checks on all the doctors at Bellevue. That explains where Detective Edison is. Fiona may not believe in patterns, but she’s certainly trying to find one.

“Rafael,” she smiles as he opens the door. “You came here to butter me up with shitty takeout and I appreciate it dearly.”

“What could I possibly be buttering you up for?” he grins, handing her the bag of diner food.

“Your hunch was right on the Ramirez case,” she sighs, getting up from her desk and grabbing the bag from his hands. She gestures to sit at the small table in the corner of her office.

He’s not all that happy to know that. Griselda Ramirez had been found in a dumpster, skin half-burned, showing signs of extreme torture. His hunch was that wasn’t the only sign of torture.

Problem was his correct hunch meant he wouldn’t be prosecuting.

“SVU?” he asks, not needing more details on the post-mortem results.

“The task force,” she nods, staring between them at the food. “She was - um. There's evidence she was - targeted.”

He’s never seen Fiona get choked up before. It throws him, but he knows exactly what she is referring to.

The Hate Crimes Task Force, run under Liv’s department.

“Anyway,” she sniffs, “I’d tell you Lou is keeping an eye on it, but you have your own in over there. Only problem is that guy,” her eyes lift up, gesturing to the television.

“Who,” he asks, following her line of sight.

“Wonder Bread Boring Stories up there who stole your life,” she reiterates. ADA Peter Stone is holding a press conference on the charges brought against the CEO of GMG Media.

Peter Stone was brought in after he transferred. He had it on good authority from Carisi the man was very thorough. Rollins hated him. Fin had no opinions.

He doesn't have any personal opinion on Stone either, except he had recommended Jack get someone with sex crimes experience or a background with under-served communities. Peter Stone had neither. He was Jack's friend's son.

The whole thing reeked of nepotism and McCoy's misplaced sense of guilt, but if the guy was doing his job and Liv wasn't complaining, it wasn't entirely his place to judge.

Even if he is a bit jealous someone with no real experience is running a hate crimes task force. No. Not jealous. He’s sure of it. He's… concerned.

“He didn't steal anything,” he shakes his head. “I chose to move on.”

“The other day he literally ran into me at the courthouse and said ‘whoa there Little Lady,’ then grinned.” She huffs, “in what world is that charming?”

“You _are_ like five feet tall,” he smirks.

“He ran into _me_ ,” she rolls her eyes dramatically, “and he isn't the sheriff in Western.”

Interesting observation to make from someone he's had to convince himself isn't actually a sprite. Though he also can't say he disagrees.

“Olivia did tell me he likes to change his shirt in front of people.”

He wouldn't go so far as to use the word complained, and she hadn't said it made her uncomfortable. But she had told him about the time Stone asked her to meet him and opened his office door with no shirt. She seemed, in a word, miffed, more than anything.

Fiona's reaction is much more visceral. Her nose turns, her lips curl.

“That's disgusting,” she practically spits.

Liv hadn't seen it that way. She just thought it was odd.

“He used to be a professional athlete,” he shrugs, “maybe he thinks he has a nice physique.”

Fiona raises one eyebrow, practically snorting.

“So what. If no one asked for his assets no one needs to see them. You know that.”

He understands what she’s implying- someone who prosecutes sex and hate crimes should have a pretty firm grasp on the finer lines of consent.

She takes a breath, then turns her gaze toward him. “Wait. Did she say he had a nice physique?”

He’s not sure why that matters. Unless she’s implying he thought she wanted it somehow which is, to borrow a phrase, disgusting.

“No,” he frowns.

“Honestly that’s wildly inappropriate,” she stabs her food with a fork, “and I’ve been trying to set up Li and Reyes for years now.”

The difference being Fiona realizes it’s inappropriate. He also thinks one of those two may be married, but none of that is really his business.

“Possibly,” he laughs, “but I don’t think it’s anything you could use to get him fired.”

Fiona grumbles for awhile, explaining how stupid she finds Stone based on one interaction. She also briefly discusses a few open cases she’s working. That was the reason he came bearing shitty diner food. Well, that and the Ramirez case.

She also grumbles about the Bellevue incidents. She doesn’t think Tuesday has anything to do with them and she’s not sure that the hospital really does either, but she’s just frustrated they can’t find anything linking them besides the potassium cyanide.

She’s mostly concerned with finding him a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend, if that’s what he’s into. Six months ago he told her his personal life was nonexistent and it had bothered her ever since.

No amount of his ignoring her questions has deterred her. She once interrogated a serial arsonist for fourteen hours, bugging him about his personal life is almost fun for her.

He doesn’t have the energy to tell her he gave up on having a partner like that years ago.

“Hey Sarge,” Li pops her head in as Fiona is trying to get him to agree to a date with her friend who works for some commission, “You got some Aspirin? My head is killing me and Miller won’t let up about the hospitals.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, gesturing limply toward her desk. Then she rattles her head, as if to shake something loose. “Bottom drawer of my desk.”

“You sure you’re okay Sarge?” Li asks, tentatively walking to the drawer.

“Well,” she trails off, staring at nothing.

“Fiona -” he tries, looking nervously between her and Jen.

“George Garber told his wife he had a headache before went to the hospital,” she says as she gets up, marching toward a file on her the corner of her desk. She rifles through it, holding up a paper, “Priya Patil had recently thrown her back out, and Joan Jenkins was on her period.”

“What does her period have to do with -”

“They were all in some amount of pain before showing up at the hospital,” she cuts her off, “but not enough to warrant going to the hospital.”

She can’t be saying that it has something to do with what you would take for pain - that there’s something wrong with over the counter products. If that were true then there were potential federal implications, global epidemiological issues, and somehow he would get to prosecute whoever started it.

Maybe.

“Masters that sounds -” he can’t find the words. 

“Like too large of a coincidence not to be a pattern,” she frowns, “Don’t I know it?” She closes her eyes, swallows, and goes back into sergeant mode. “Jen - have Reyes and Miller check the houses.” 

“Lou'll hate it Sarge,” Li shakes her head, wincing.

“Tell him if he rules out my theory he can pursue his,” she offers, “And if he gives you any problems he can come get that directive in person.”

“Yes ma'am.”

She shakes her head, walking out the door.

Lou Miller has been on the job since the '90s - nearly as long as Liv, maybe longer. He was on patrol during 9/11. He once stared down a serial killer until the guy admitted to three more murders. He wasn't afraid of anything

Except Fiona Masters. Fiona, with her perfect hair, pink trench coats and designer handbags. Fiona who studied Classics at Amherst and ended up in homicide.

She was one of the youngest detectives to make sergeant in NYPD history. She’d also solved the Manhattan Mangler case two months after Lou had been staring at it for ten years.

None of this was the reason Lou would do what she said. She had his utmost respect, even if he thinks she's a little fancy for a cop.

He'd pursue the angle because she's probably right. And that's what he's afraid of.

Because, if Fiona is right, it isn’t just federal implications and epidemiology. It isn’t even a serial killer.

If someone was lacing pain pills with potassium cyanide there was no way to let people know without inducing a panic.

If it was pain pills they potentially had to notify Homeland Security.

He’s never wished for _just_ a serial killer before.

* * *

“RAFA!!” comes from the other side of the door as he arrives for spaghetti night. He doesn’t know what Noah is so excited about. He’s here every week.

Still, he enjoys the welcome, even if his legs are starting to protest at the full body slam from a seven year old.

“Hola amigo,” he laughs, fluffing Noah’s hair as he tries to coax him into entering the apartment.

“Rafa,” Noah exclaims, practically dancing as he shuts and locks the door. “Momma made spaghetti.”

“Isn’t that what she normally does on spaghetti night?”

“Yeah,” he nods, grinning, “but today I helped!”

Spaghetti night has been a standing thing since about five months ago. Liv had complained they didn’t much go to Forlini’s anymore, and Noah had been very happy to have his amigo over.

Six months ago his and Liv’s relationship had shifted, but Noah hadn’t seemed to mind. To be fair, he’s still not entirely sure what their relationship is, so it isn’t like Noah would have even really noticed.

“I’m sure it’s delicious,” he smiles.

“Momma said I could help with the table too,” Noah grabs his hand, dragging him to the table, “Look!”

Each place set has a knife, a fork and a spoon.

“Good job,” he offers as Noah beams. He furrows a brow, looking back into the kitchen at Liv.  “Do we have another guest this evening?”

There are four place settings instead of the usual three. Liv would have let him know about another guest so he could have at least worn a tie, right?

“Eddie’s gonna try out the noodles,” Noah answers for her, “even though forks are a challenge for him.”

Ah, foiled again by the elephant.

“Let’s hope he doesn’t get sauce on himself or he’ll have to take a trip to the salon again.”

The salon trip had been the result of an adventure in the park. Noah had insisted on him playing in the sandbox. This had required a shampoo and a light blow dry.

Noah giggles at the memory, darting off to fetch the animal from his room.

“Hi.” Olivia smiles beside him. He hadn’t realized she’d exited the kitchen. She hands him a glass of wine. “It’s almost done. We had to make extra for Eddie.”

“You sure you don’t need help?”

He usually helps pour the wine at the very least.

“Noah insists on you and Eddie doing nothing,” she grins, “You’re guests.”

Though he quite likes the welcome and loves getting Noah this excited, he can’t help be a bit disappointed. He was hoping, someday, to be more than a guest to him. He is Uncle Rafa, but maybe he was wanting to be a little bit more than that.

Noah doesn’t know their relationship has shifted. Noah can’t answer what this relationship is. His brain knows he won’t ever be much more to Olivia Benson, but his heart sometimes gets involved and throws his feelings astray.

Eddie manages not to get sauce on himself. He also manages not to eat any of the noodles. As he is, in fact, a stuffed elephant.

Noah winds down after building a Lego town while they watch some show on Netflix Kids he does not understand. Liv gets him to sleep even though he wants a story. Even though he whines the entire time she's tucking him in, he's snoring by the time she shuts his door. 

She pours more wine and they sit on the sofa, discussing Noah and politics and anything really. He could talk to her about anything really.

Even though talking about his own cases feels weird.

“Masters said she had to transfer the Ramirez case this morning,” he leads. It’s a case they actually have in common. Again. For once.

She’s not going to tell him anything about it. She knows he wouldn’t really want her to. She just smiles.

“She told me someone had a hunch that turned out to be right.”

“Just doing my part,” he grins, but there’s something catching in her tone. Something flighty and off. “What?”

She frowns.

“I don’t know how I feel about Stone handling these cases. He’s not particularly…” she searches for the word. He has several. “Sensitive about these issues.”

Sensitive works. Experienced also does. He’s not jealous. He promises.

“He’s used to homicide,” he attempts. “It’s a different set of knives. He’ll adjust.”

“I hope so,” she sighs. He hopes so as well. “Or Carisi’s going to end up punching him in the face.”

“Honestly I’d kind of like to see that.”

They all started out dumb once, though. Carisi was particularly stupid in his first days. He himself was an gigantic asshole. It takes a bit to adjust.

He hopes that's all it is.Maybe Fiona's just taking it personally and Liv is used to people already knowing how to handle these issues.

“Me too,” she laughs, “So what’s this rumor I’m hearing about a serial killer?”

He really doesn’t want to talk about it. They don’t know anything and he doesn’t want to frighten her.

Though frightening Liv is probably not likely.

“We’re not really sure yet,” he shrugs.

She doesn’t buy it.

“C’mon,” she prods, hand suddenly at his arm, “you can give me a clue.”

“Masters has a theory about NSAIDs but -”

“But?”

“It’s ridiculous,” he breathes, “It sounds -" he fumbles, searching for the correct word to use.

She smiles, takes his hand in hers, “Like you don’t want it to be true so you're telling yourself it isn't.”

Of course Liv can read him like an open book

“There's something I can't shake.”

“I am the soul of discretion.”

If both hands weren’t full she’d probably be making a move like she’s locking up her lips. He thinks she's feeling a bit too goofy to have this conversation. 

“If it’s over the counter- do you know the kind of panic we'd be unleashing? The kinds of conspiracies people would come up with. You know when they took Tylenol off the shelves in ‘82 Johnson and Johnson lost over a 100 million dollars.”

“Someone's been reading Wikipedia,” she twists her lips from forming a smile. She isn’t listening.

“Liv, I’m serious,” he searches her eyes. “If this is as random as the Chicago case then it’s huge.”

“Then good thing we have you,” she smiles, rubbing her thumbs over his palm. “Let’s go to bed. You need the stress relief.”

He quirks an eyebrow, “That’s one roundabout way into my pants Lieutenant.”

“Are you turning me down counselor?”

“No.”

He still isn’t sure what they're doing here. He knows what happened that first time. Stress relief was the problem the first time. He'd told her how broken up he was over the Householder case. How he was so close to stepping out of line - so far out of line. How he wasn’t sure he could do this job anymore.

She'd hugged him and held him. Soothed his shoulders and smoothed the wrinkles in his forehead. Smiled at him with glassy eyes and hints of promises she didn’t dare name.

Maybe he's mixing it up now. Maybe she needed the comfort as much as he did. Either way, when she leaned in toward him, the last thing he had been expecting was a kiss.

The last thing he had been expecting was for her to beg him to fuck her.

He'd convinced himself at the time she was finally ready. The prospect of him leaving pushed her over the edge.

God help him, he took what she was offering. Because he wanted it to be real. He wanted her to love him

To love him back.

Now, six months later, the dance has evolved.

He knows he’s a temporary solution. The interim guy. She’s never going to love him.

If she had any inkling of that feeling she would have said it. They both know this is all that will work for them. And he's just enough of a fool to take it.

He's just enough of an idiot to continue believing - sometimes just for a split second, when her nails are clawing at his back and she's releasing strings of obscenities - maybe she could change her mind and love him.

She can't. She won't. This is all he'll ever be able to give her. If that's all he deserves then he isn't going to argue with the universe over it.

He gets to love Olivia Benson.  It doesn't much matter if she loves him too.

He's just amazed she allows him to hold her like this after. He usually lingers too long. He intends to slip out in the middle of the night. But lately he's fallen asleep and can't bring himself to leave until the morning.

This isn't going to last, he tells himself. It can't. He's savoring it.

That's a funny word for denial.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion of warrants, social contracts, and getting in over your head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just a transitional chapter, so please bear with me as I figure out where the plot is going :)

Again, he groans. He stayed too long again. The alarm clock on the bedside table reads 4:00 in red, screeching at him to get out of bed.

Luckily for him, Liv has slipped away in the night. Her back is to him and she’s cocooned in herself, breathing deeply. 

He wants to pull her back, to kiss her shoulder blade and have her smile. To meet her lips and give her a hard time about things he isn’t really conscious of - just so he can see her face crinkle a little. He wants to stay to a decent hour, maybe watch the sun fall through the curtain as the light catches her hair. 

We don’t get what we want. We get what we deserve. 

So he slips out of bed and into the clothes from last night. Making sure to cause as little noise as possible. Liv briefly stirs, but only flips over to the spot he just vacated, snuggling into the pillow he left. 

It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. 

He could make coffee. He knows where it is and she wouldn’t mind if he used the coffee maker, but he doesn’t want to wake up Noah and explain what he’s doing here at 4 am. He doesn’t want to wake up Liv and explain why he didn’t leave already.  

So he makes sure the door is locked behind him as he leaves. He can use the change of clothes at his office if he gets there before Carmen. She’ll have too many questions.

It’s too early for the coffee cart.

* * *

 

Fiona is sitting outside of his office when he gets there. Of course he beat Carmen in, but he failed to consider that Fiona's sleep schedule defies the laws of nature.

She throws an eyebrow to the polo and lounge pants his is wearing. 

“When did it become casual Friday on a Tuesday?” she tuts as he unlocks the door. 

She’s pissed about something and she’ll be sure to tell him. 

“Good Morning to you, too,” he breathes as he enters, apparently the change will have to wait. 

Masters is hot on his heels as he sits at his desk. 

“They each took Extra Strength Tylenol in gel caps,” she states. 

She gives no prompts, nor any explanations. 

He sighs, pulling his brows together. 

He isn’t ready to start this day without coffee. Why didn't he just make some at Liv's again? Right - because he was trying not to wake her or Noah. 

Because he's been avoiding the talk where she tells him he can't keep staying overnight. He’s avoiding the eventual talk where she tells him what they’ve been doing needs to stop. 

“Each one of them?” He coughs, massaging his forehead. He doesn’t have the brain power for this without caffeine. 

“Three confirmed,” she looks off in the corner. He doesn’t understand the game, but he’ll play. 

“I can't get a warrant out of half,” he rolls his eyes. He could get a warrant out of whatever he wanted if he was in the mood, but he isn’t and Fiona is annoying. 

She crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Who says I need a warrant?”

If she doesn’t need a warrant why is she here?

“So you were waiting outside my office at 5 am for a chat?”

It’s 4:47 but who’s counting? 

She frowns and huffs loudly. 

“I need a warrant.”

“For?”

He thinks he understands. She doesn’t like asking for help. She doesn’t like needing something from someone because she has no idea when he’ll call in the favor. Life isn’t purely transactional, and neither is their relationship. But if he does this for her then she'll fell like she owes him something and she doesn’t enjoy it whatsoever. 

Even if it is necessary.

“Yvonne Young's apartment,” she looks in a corner, expression reading as if she’s a teenager asking for keys to dad’s car. “She's the only person on her lease and we need to search it. The landlord is willing to let us in but -”

“You want to be sure,” he finishes for her. “You didn't call me earlier because?”

“I just got TARU to put a rush on the bottle in her purse but she could have taken some at another time.”

That doesn't exactly answer the question of why she didn't pick up the phone, but he's past caring at this point.

“I'll talk to Judge Adebayo. I’ll what I can do about that warrant.” 

Taiwo Adebayo is always in his office by 4 am. He doesn’t particularly like interruptions and is a Yale Law grad by way of Cornell to top it off, but he thinks he can persuade him. Especially since this is only to make sure they get every duck in a row. There  are reasonable grounds to assume they would be fine to go in anyway, but depending on what they find they want to make absolutely sure they can use it later.

She nods, apparently satisfied by this answer because her next act is to twist her mouth and give him a hard time.

“You’re going to change first, right?”

He’s very sorry he didn’t run home before coming in the office now. He’s never making this mistake again. 

“I’m also going to make coffee first,” he snaps, “but thank you for the concern.”   


“Listen,” she throws a hand to the edge of the desk, “if there’s something going on in your home life -”   


“Again,” he interjects as she keeps talking “thank you for the concern but I am an adult.”   


“-Reyes is very good at personal advice,” she finishes. 

He doesn’t really even know Reyes and Reyes certainly doesn’t know Liv. It's also not so much an issue as a distraction. 

Or rather - that he's only just a distraction. It's starting to eat away at him a little, but that isn't relevant to the fact that Fiona apparently has no sense of place. 

“I’m fine,” he says as gently as he can manage. “I just couldn’t go back to sleep and figured I’d make coffee here.”

It’s not a lie. He’s just not filling in the details of why he didn’t want to go back to sleep. It’s none of her business, especially because she only halfway cares.    


“Okay,” she nods, “If I were a betting person I’d say you’re doing the walk of shame. Which is ridiculous because you definitely wouldn’t have worn that on a date and you shouldn’t be ashamed if you got some.”

He’s not ashamed, per se. It also wasn’t a date. He has no idea what he’s doing but the only person he wants to talk to about that is Liv. And he’s never going to talk to her about it. 

He’s … enjoying himself as much as he can. That’s all that needs to be defined at the moment.   


“It’s really none of your business, is it?”   


“No,” she admits, “but let me know if you need me to stop setting you up with people.”

He believes he’s told her no less than fifteen times he not only doesn’t need her setting him up, he doesn’t want her doing it. 

He’d tell her that he’s spoken for, that he’s in love with someone who will never love him back, but that would only encourage her. If he doesn’t make a big deal out of it, no one else should. Right?

“When have I ever told you to set me up with people?”   


“Fair,” she considers, finally unfolding her arms and walking toward the office door. “Let me know when the warrant comes in.”

Fiona is going to be the death of him. He knows it. 

* * *

Adebayo comes through with the warrant. He texts Fiona immediately, but also runs by the precinct to deliver it.

When he walks in, Detective Edison is typing something furiously on her computer. Reyes is reading something intently. Miller is holding court over by the coffee bar. Lin is pretending to stare intently at whatever Masters is writing on what is supposed to be the investigation board. Right now it looks more like a series of unconnected dots. 

He hates homicide. 

He also doesn’t like that all five of them are in the bullpen, but that’s not his call.

“Have all of your phones died?” he calls, each one perks up. Edison goes back to whatever she is furiously typing. 

“You got it?” Reyes asks, gesturing to the note in his hand.

“Yes, which I texted earlier,” he hands it to the detective as he throws on a coat, gesturing toward Fiona. She is still blathering. 

“Give her a break man,” he sighs, “she’s running on fumes and the Tylenol assholes won’t cooperate without more evidence.”

“Which is what they should do -”

“Legally, I know, but Masters won’t slow down until she gets it.” 

It doesn’t show, really. The only indication he’s received that she’s tired is her lack of response to his text. He hasn’t thought about her being human before. Not really, and it strikes him that his stress will start as soon as hers ends.

He hates waiting, but it has to tear everyone up that they haven’t figured it out yet. 

So he does the next best thing to compassion - he doesn’t bring it up again. 

He lets her send Reyes and Lin out to serve the warrant. He doesn’t ask Edison what she’s up to with her stenographer's course. Hell, he doesn’t even ask why Lou gets to have a Ted Talk over at the coffee bar. 

“Miller is working contacts,” she says as he sits in Lin’s vacated seat. 

“I wasn’t asking,” he defends.

“But you’re curious,” she presses, “It doesn’t look like he cares but he’s trying to call in a favor with the lab.”

He’s probably got his own set of favors outstanding with TARU. And between all his friends in SVU he could get Miller in to look at the lab, but he doesn’t need to pull them into this. 

They should get Major Crimes involved. They should call a press conference soon. 

But there isn’t anything to tell anyone yet. He hopes they find it before The Ledger goes digging around.

Fiona picks up on his line of thinking, almost. Though she’s also changing the subject.

“Peter Stone came by earlier,” she offers archly, notating TYLENOL above TUESDAY on the whiteboard.

“Why?”

He neither knows why this is relevant nor why he would drop by.

“He wanted to introduce himself, get the lay of the land.” Her tone is sweet and kind, but she was anything but pleased by the visit, “He even offered his services as a former homicide prosecutor.”

She sees it as an intrusion of the highest order. He’s not sure he appreciates it, either, but he’s not going to go around casting aspersions without knowing the intent. 

“Seems helpful,” he shrugs, following her as she walks to her office. 

“Too helpful,” she turns on him, “Is he after your job?”

“Why would he be after my job?”

If he wanted an Executive ADA title all the man would have to do was ask and he knows it. Jack McCoy thinks he walks on water. If he’s trying to make a name for himself, he can stay right where he is. 

The kinds of cases coming through the ranks these days at SVU?  If he wanted the publicity nowadays, SVU would definitely be where he would do it.

“Maybe he knows something I don't.” He’d been quite above board with the Abreu snafu and Jack had assured him he had already served his time for that. “You in with the Feds?”

“No.” he hadn’t even considered being an AUSA, especially given current administrative issues with the Justice Department. “Unless he knows something I don't and I’m getting fired.”

“I wouldn't allow that,” she states matter-of-factly as if she has any say in the matter. 

He snorts. “Because you can control what Jack McCoy does.”

She frowns slightly, a gleam in her eye, “I could make reelection very difficult for him and he knows it.”

“You're kind of terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

He’s definitely sure she’s not exaggerating, but he also doesn’t know what she has on McCoy. He’s not sure he wants to know. He hopes it’s just something that looks bad, because if it’s actual criminality, then she should be coming out with it already.

Nevertheless, he is very happy that he is somehow not on her bad side. Being on Fiona’s bad side seems even more terrifying than being on her good side.

Though he’s not sure she has either.

* * *

He’s not set to go over to Liv’s tonight, but she texts him to come over after dinner. She’s had a hard day, she says. She’d like to see him.

He can’t help the way his heart swells at that. Though he can still be annoyed with himself for thinking it means anything. 

He’s just a distraction, and he knows better than to think the pattern will change. He’s gotten his hopes up before only to watch her fall for another man -- another cop more specifically. 

The only thing that’s changed about their relationship is having sex, and he’s not about to tell himself it means anything to her. He's just a placeholder.

“Rafa!” he hears as a mess of curls opens the door, “It's not spaghetti night.”

“Am I only allowed to see you on spaghetti night?”

Truth be told, he hadn't thought about the connection. Maybe he wouldn't be welcomed on a non-spaghetti night.

Noah just giggles. “You're silly.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but is it okay for me to come in?”

“Yeah,” he nods, leaving the door open as he walks into the apartment. “Eddie just asked about you. He wants to know about your job.”

Liv had buzzed him into the building so she must’ve let Noah answer the door, though there needs to be a better security system than just leaving the door wide open. 

“My job?” he asks, following the child in and shutting the door.

“Yeah,” Noah nods as he flips the deadbolt, “Momma said you help catch bad guys but you don't have a gun.”

How do you explain what a lawyer is to a small child?

“Well,” he ponders, taking off his jacket as Noah goes back to a pile of dinosaurs on the floor, “once the cops find the bad guys, I make sure they stay in jail for a very long time.”

“So Momma finds the bad guys and you keep them in jail?”

“Sort of,” he tries, placing the jacket on the back of a chair as he toes off his shoes, “You know what a social contract is, right?”

Why on earth does he think a kindergartner would understand anything about political philosophy?

“That's where you get ice cream!” Noah practically screams, giggling. Apparently confused about what an ice cream social is. 

“Not really,” he laughs, leaning down to join Noah on the floor. “It's when everyone who lives in the same area agrees they all have the same rules, but some of the rules are pretty complicated. So I help figure out which ones they broke.”

He’s really thinking now, brow furrowed, staring at a triceratops. 

“Like when Ms Deacon told me I was in trouble for breaking my pencil even though she never said that was a rule?”

He doesn’t think he likes whoever Ms Deacon is. Though he also doesn’t know the context for how or why Noah’s pencil was broken, but it isn’t his place to defend the kid either. 

It’s as good an explanation as any. 

“Kind of,” he musters, grabbing the stegosaurus from the other side of Noah. 

“Your job is weird,” Noah answers in a blistering display of approval.

“Yes.”

“But you help catch bad guys!”

Sometimes, he thinks. Sometimes, he merely waits around for everyone else to figure out what they need paperwork for. 

“Noah,” he hears Liv from behind him. Her tone is frighteningly gentle, “Uncle Rafa's job is to make sure everyone follows the rules.”

There's uncle again. Noah's dropped it recently, but Liv keeps bringing it into things. He's beginning to hate it. 

He doesn't need the reminder he has no business wishing to be something more. It keeps sailing through his consciousness enough as it is. 

Noah's face lights up, “like a principal!”

He’s not sure he likes being compared to a principal as he doesn’t actually interpret the laws. If anyone is a principal in this overwrought metaphor it's the judge. Does PJ Masks have any episodes on lawyers? 

“Noah,” Liv interjects, effectively saving him from catastrophe, “why don't you brush your teeth and get ready for bed? I can read you a story.”

“But I like Rafa's better!” He whines.

“Hey,” he admonishes, “your mother works very hard to be able to be home to read you a story okay?” Noah shakes his head sheepishly. “So how about you be nice and follow her rules?”

“Okay,” he nods, stopping in front of Liv before going to the bathroom. He reaches his arms around her middle. “I love you Momma.”

She's eyeing him suspiciously. Maybe he's stepped too far. It really isn’t his place to tell Noah what to do. He’s only Uncle Rafa after all.

They both watch him as he ambles down the hall, shutting the door behind him as he enters the bathroom. 

“That was a disaster, wasn't it?” he laughs, attempting to distract her from how he overstepped.

“To be fair,” she smiles, hand settling somewhere near his waist, “it's not an easy thing to explain.”

“So I went straight for Rousseau.”

He doesn’t know that he’s supposed to mirror her gesture, so he doesn’t.

“Personally I would have left it at cop without a gun,” she smirks, “but it was certainly entertaining.”

“I'm not a cop though,” he rolls his eyes as she settles head near his shoulder. 

He didn't think they were supposed to be this obvious around Noah.

Though Noah isn't exactly in the room and he certainly won't complain about it. Maybe she liked the fact that Noah hugged her.

“And some cops don't carry guns," she laughs, "But he's six.’

“Alright,” he can’t help himself. He pulls her closer, leaving his hand at the small of her back.

“You know when he gets back he'll want you to read ‘If You Give A Mouse A Cookie’ for the fifteenth time.”

He thought he’d successfully moved to his failure as a teacher, but she’s back on his failure as an uncle.

“I’m sorry about that,” he sighs, removing his hands, “I'll try to talk him into having you read something else. I'm just new and flashy.”

She leans back, looking up at him, but she doesn’t remove her hands. 

“I don’t mind. I was trying to get you out of it, actually. I'm sure you have that thing memorized.”

She’s okay with having him read a story? 

“It's fine. I kind of enjoy it.”

“Good,” she grins, settling her head back on his chest, “because so do I. And so does Eddie,”

“Ah so Noah's the grift. I see the play now. I’ve fallen victim to a trap.”

She doesn’t answer, just giggles. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard her actually giggle. Laugh, smile, grin even, but never a giggle. He’s glad he can distract her from whatever had her so stressed.

She goes to check on Noah and helps him get ready for bed. 

He does in fact, end up reading the same book. It’s only about the tenth time, but he thinks he should stop counting.

* * *

 

Once Noah is asleep she pours him a glass of wine. She ran out of scotch last week and hasn’t had a chance to restock. He doesn’t mind. 

Apparently the Ramirez case ran into some pretty nasty hate crime territory and Stone refused to prosecute it as such. In his mind a murder is a murder and he has no business legislating what is in a person’s head. 

What Stone doesn’t seem to understand is that while he has prosecutorial discretion, it also isn’t in his purview to decide what the law actually is. Hate crimes legislation exists as a sentencing enhancement, and frankly all crime is about what your intent was in committing it. 

It’s a strange argument to be making as the person whose job is to prosecute these kinds of cases, but Liv doesn’t actually seem mad at him. Just the situation and the case itself.

“Since we’re talking about him,” he sips the wine, “Can you do me a favor and let Stone know it’s probably not a good idea to drop by Fiona’s precinct anymore?”

That was definitely not the right move. She practically rolls her eyes. 

“I wasn't aware Masters owned the 107 now.”

She takes another gulp as he furrows a brow, “She doesn't, just, he's ingratiating himself and she already doesn't like him so…”

She actually rolls her eyes this time, “I mean God forbid someone try to help out Fiona.”

She finishes off the wine, setting the glass down on the coffee table in front of them. 

“Okay,” he tests, “don't do it then.”

If he really wanted to bring it up, he could say that it's highly unusual and professionally conspicuous to invite yourself to help on a case when you have your own cases. In fact, he doesn't know why she doesn't seem mad he isn't prepping for his own cases.

Instead, somehow, she seems mad at him

“I'm sorry Rafa,” she sighs, fingers to her forehead. “It's been a long day.” 

And he's gone and pissed her off when he was supposed to take her mind off of it. He’d kiss her, but that isn’t the way they do things. No, he needs to see himself out.

“I understand,” he nods, placing his glass next to hers. “If you need to go to bed I’ll go on home.”

“No,” she grabs his forearm, “I mean,” she sighs, thumb tracing his palm. “I want to go to bed, but you're supposed to be there with me.”

Oh, right. The real reason he’s supposed to be here. 

“Lieutenant,” he laughs, “did you invite me over for a booty call?”

“Something like that.” She shrugs, and has the temerity to look demure, “I'm sorry, I guess it’s me who needs the stress relief this time.”

“I'm not turning you down.’

“Good.”

* * *

Lately it feels like this is the only place he can communicate with her. They lost something when they started doing this, some version of the friendship he held so dear. Eventually she's going to tire of it. Eventually she's going to slip away completely.

For now he aims to make her feel as good as possible. Mostly because he loves the sounds she makes and the looks she can't help giving. 

Sometimes the way she looks at him makes him think someday, maybe, this could be more. Sometimes he lets himself fantasize he's a comfort to her rather than a distraction. 

She makes quick work of discarding his tie. Before he can make work of his cuff links she's sliding down his suspenders and unbuttoning his shirt. 

He didn't realize she was in such a hurry. 

She leans her hand up under his tee shirt and sucks at his pulse point. 

“Liv,” he chokes, “can we slow it down a hair? I actually like this shirt.”

She detaches her mouth, smirking as she reaches over to undo his left sleeve. “There are shirts you wear that you don't like?”

“In a manner of speaking. Why?”

She looks him over, practically licking her lips. 

“Wear one next time.”

“You expect me to wear a shirt I hate all day just because you told me to?”

She raises an eyebrow. 

“I would like you to wear a shirt you wouldn't miss so I don't feel bad about ripping it off of you.”

Yeah, that went straight to his dick. 

She hands him the cuff link, dropping it gingerly in his palm before practically sashaying to the bed. She then pulls her shirt over her head and tosses it back at him.

“If you just want to stare as I do all the work you can. But I don't think it would be very comfortable,” she goads, gesturing toward his crotch as she uses her other hand to unhook her bra. 

He's never gotten naked so fast in his life. He’s definitely lost the cuff link - but it’s worth it.

He climbs over her, leaning down to pull her mouth into his. She reaches her hands up into his hair, scratching at his scalp as she wraps her legs around his waist. 

They’re both naked except for her underwear, and if he's not careful he's going to embarrass himself completely. 

“This is a lot more comfortable,” he grins as he moves lower to kiss at her nipples. She's squirming, but isn't complaining. 

So he decides to test it. She usually doesn't let him spend too much time here. Just screams at him to varying degrees of profanity. 

He moves lower, caressing her belly button briefly with his tongue before reaching her panty line. 

He slowly pulls them off of her, resisting the incredible urge to kiss her legs. 

Since she's actually letting him dawdle, he leans down again, about to dart out his tongue. He’s almost where he wants to be when he feels a hand at his neck, effectively stopping him. 

“I need you inside of me,” she moans. 

“That's flattering, but I wanted to give you something first.”

“I don’t like it,” she states flatly.

“What do you mean you don't like it?” he looks up. Her face is flushed. Her hand is over her forehead. He probably shouldn’t push it. 

“Can we drop it?” she sighs. 

He moves off of her slightly, scooting up so he can look her in the eyes. Well, as much of her eyes as he can see with her covering her face.

“I'm only trying to clarify what it is you don’t like so I don’t accidentally do it.

She drops the hand, looking up at him. “It’s not like that. It just doesn’t do anything for me.” He finds that very hard to believe, but he’s listening. “I know its weird, but everyone thinks they'll be the one to fix it and then I end up having to pretend it's amazing when it isn't.”

“Or no one knew what they were doing down there,” he offers. He’s not trying to be cheeky, but honestly, it throws him for a loop. 

“Please don't take it as a challenge,” he appreciates that she doesn’t show her exasperation. 

“Okay.”

“You're taking it as a challenge.”

“If you don't want me to then I won't.”

He isn’t exactly taking it as a challenge, more as a confusion. A doubt. 

He thinks she's severely missing out, if previous reviews are anything to go by he's pretty good at it. If previous indications are anything to go by, most people tend to have a good time. But Liv isn’t most people and he’ll respect it. 

“What I want,” she actually licks her lips this time, caressing his forearm suggestively. “Is for you to fuck me before I go crazy.” 

“Message received.”

He grabs a condom and slips it over himself. Sliding into her shouldn't feel this incredible every time, especially when all she wants is a thorough screw. But if she wants a thorough screw then he is happy to accommodate. 

Even if, sometimes, he feels a little disconnected.

* * *

She's lying on top of him when his phone rings. He groans, thankful he remembered to gather his clothes and take out his cell before cuddling.

Cuddling with Liv always gets him in trouble. 

Because she doesn't want him to. Not really. 

It's never more than ten minutes before she's asleep and then he ends up falling asleep. U sually he manages to duck out before it becomes a complete disaster and he spends the night, but lately it's been getting worse.

He sighs, not even bothering to look at the clock or the ID before answering. 

“I have bad news,” Fiona snipes from the other end. She is clearly walking outside somewhere. 

He groans, gently scooting Liv to her side of the bed. ( _Her side_? As if he has a side.)

He slips out of the bed and into the en-suite bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

“Tox screen results?” he asks, whispering as he throws the toilet seat down to sit on it. He knows it's way too early for tox screen results. 

“There’s another victim.” 

“Fiona, you have to turn this over to Major Crimes.” 

He needs to warn McCoy this is going to turn into something huge soon. Hell, Jack will probably want to take over prosecution if Major Crimes gets involves. 

“No,” she states simply.

“This isn’t an argument.”   


“No,” she repeats, “Major Crimes doesn’t want it. Garson told me I couldn’t hand off an unsolvable case to him.”   


“That’s literally not how it works.”   


“Well Garson is a shithead but the worse news is we already found the Tylenol at the vic’s house.”   


“Extra strength?”

“Yep. I need a warrant for financial records.”

He does some quick calculations in his head. If they need information from the banks then he’s in way over his head. If his math is right - they’re at five victims. If his math is right, they either have a serial killer or Johnson and Johnson has a major problem. 

Johnson and Johnson has a major problem either way. 

“You need to call the FBI.”

“I’m working on it.”   


“I’ll work on your warrant.”

He sighs, turning on the faucet as he places the phone on the counter. He splashes some water in his face. 

The only bright side of this is he’s actually going to leave in the middle of the night this time. He takes the phone off the counter, pulling it into his pocket as he reopens the door. 

“Rafa,” he hears in the darkness. “Who was that?”

There’s an edge to her tone that would encourage him if it wasn’t so full of crap. He shouldn’t be encouraged by jealousy and it wouldn’t be fair for her to be jealous. 

Besides, she’s not jealous. She’s just tired. 

“Fiona,” he smiles, trying to brighten up her mood somewhat. She’s groggy and he feels bad he woke her up. 

“And you took a call from your sergeant into the bathroom because?” 

There’s definitely an edge to this conversation he doesn’t understand. Why would she be jealous of Fiona?

“I can’t really share case details with,” he falters, _whatever we are -_ his brain supplies unhelpfully. “You.” he settles on instead. “However unintentionally.”

She frowns, pulling herself to a sitting position against the headboard. “So you have another victim.”

“I really can’t say Liv.” 

Maybe missing out on this partnership and trying to replace it with sex was a bad choice. Maybe they’ve pushed it too far.

“But you’re going to leave and you’ll have a press conference in the morning.”   


He glances at the clock. It’s 2 am. It’s technically morning. 

“Whatever,” she sighs, falling back onto the bed. “Just tell me if I shouldn’t be taking Tylenol.”   


“I don’t know.”   


“I know you’re all about the right way to do things but just this once can you tell me?”

“I have no idea Liv,” he sighs, practically whining, “Masters thinks it’s Extra Strength Tylenol gelcaps but that’s only confirmed on three cases. I don’t know if it’s a serial killer. I don’t know if it’s bad product. Hell, I don’t know if we’re just making a pattern out of nothing. When I say I don’t know I don’t know.”

She’s frowning at him, but her face is soft.    


“Come here,” she commands.

“I have to leave.”

“To get your warrant I know, but can you come here first?”

He sighs. He can’t get stuck here. He can’t get carried away. But he never could deny her anything. 

He goes to the bed, where she makes him sit across from her. 

She grabs his hands in hers, looking him straight in the eyes. 

“You have this,” she consoles. “Masters has the best homicide squad in the city. Remember Miller caught the Preppie Killer.”

He can’t imagine Lou Miller having accomplished anything since the early 2000s so it fits.    


“He did?”   


She smiles, “Why do you think he hasn’t been fired for his conspiracy shit?”

She knows Lou is a nut, and she’s trying to get him to calm down. It’s working.    


“Liv,” he squeezes her hand, “I don’t need you to make me laugh.”   


“Yes you do,” she retorts, “But you also need me to tell you to get out of your head and to focus. You have to come out with the details soon or the press is going to start making things up.”

He also needs to tell Jack and to make sure Fiona calls the FBI and to get a warrant.

“I know,” he shuts his eyes, breathing deeply before falling into her shoulder, “I just don’t want to incite a panic.”   


“Multiple people are dying from cyanide poisoning Rafa. There’s going to be a panic no matter what you do,” she takes her hand to rub against his neck, “This can be managed.”   


“ I miss you,” he murmurs into her shoulder.

“I miss you too.” she fluffs his hair. “But if you can’t be on my team I need you to still use your talents for good.”   


That actually gets him to laugh. “Am I Peter Parker?”    


“If you want to be.”

It’s not about what he wants. He was never meant to be the hero here. He gets what he deserves.

Maybe, eventually, he'll deserve her. Though he doubts that highly.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fiona Masters v. Jack McCoy, Rafael Barba v. Getting his hopes up

It’s been a long week, he thinks, resisting the urge to kiss Liv on the forehead as he ambles out of her bed.

There are now eight victims they know about. Five are confirmed to have ingested Extra Strength Tylenol gelcaps before appearing in the hospital. One likely took Tylenol as the chem trace lined up with the chemical compounds. They just couldn’t find any bottle to confirm it.

The other two victims didn’t have enough acetaminophen in their systems to be conclusive.

The thing they all definitely have in common is that they were poisoned with potassium cyanide.

This was the only week they hadn't had a victim. Which means they were able to make some progress - a perverted sense of progress.

He's thankful to Liv for multiple reasons. Not the least of which is that when he spends the night at her place he doesn't feel the same sense of dread he does when he tries to sleep alone.

It's not to do with companionship, really. Or rather, not entirely to do with companionship. He dreads the 3 am phone call. From Fiona, or Reyes. Telling him they need a warrant for the ninth victim.

At the ninth victim he’s going to be compelled to involve the FBI himself. Fiona could tell him all she wanted that she’s got an understanding with the NYC Field Office and her “Good Buddy” Special Agent Steve Sakasian, but he’s not sure she’s told them the full story.

What they probably need at this point is a task force. And he’s the only one who thinks so.

He’s tried to inform McCoy several times and the man has brushed him off repeatedly. _Rafael - you can handle it,_ he says. The vote of confidence should feel great. It just feels like he’s an annoyance.

Is there a magic number of homicides that gets the DA to care about a serial killer? At what point do they confirm it’s a serial killer?

At what point does he anonymously inform The Ledger himself?

It's only when Jack calls him into his office with Masters that he gets a sense of what's really going on.

“I really don't see the point of wining and dining us when people are dying,” Fiona cuts straight to the chase.

Jack feigns a laugh. It's a prosecutor's laugh. One to ensnare your opponent on the stand. If Fiona sees through it she doesn't care to point it out.

“Don't you think this should be a case for Major Crimes?”

Masters isn’t going to stand for that -- she’s supposedly tried to involve Major Crimes. He's expecting her to go into how Garson is a jerk and a fraud. Instead she lashes out. Wildly.

“Don't you think that's not really up to your office to decide?”

“Ms Masters,” Jack leads, clearly trying to calm her down, “I recognize you're all running on borrowed time, but let's try to remember we're all on the same team.”

“First of all, Jack,” she snaps, emphasizing the k with vigor, “it is not up to the DA how the NYPD investigates, just whether you press charges after we have.”

“And secondly,” he smiles, aiming for affability.

“It's Sergeant.”

He resists the urge to laugh at her expression. She resembles a toddler throwing a fit at the toy store. And Jack is, luckily, still amused rather than pissed.

“That may be,” he continues, “but I think it's a good idea to have Peter Stone help out with this case.”

There's the rub. Peter. Golden Boy Peter who somehow still has his job in spite of literally refusing to do it in the Ramirez case. Jack thinks a green prosecutor who’s lucky not to have run deeply afoul of the news media should help out on homicide. Even though SVU and hate crimes are drowning.

He's never known McCoy to have a blind spot this big. His personal life is a mess, but who's isn't? He's had a long history of questionable relationships with female ADAs that would likely now get him on a New Yorker cover page expose, but he hasn't heard a whiff of a rumor about him wielding it as a power play.

Then again, there's an inherent power dynamic to all of it. Hell, maybe that's what Fiona was going with when she'd mentioned she could make reelection difficult.

Still. That vote of confidence from him a few days ago seems empty and more a flit of the wrist. A way to get him to go away.

Now that he's been convinced this case is actually important it should be Peter's?

Fuck that.

He's about to say as much. Albeit, more… politely, when Fiona sweeps in ahead of him.

“No.” She states as if that's the end of the matter.

He can tell Jack is annoyed, but still impressed by her pluck. In a different world he'd probably - no. In a different world he'd never have had to get reassigned.

Then again, that would mean never actually going on that date with Liv. Then again, he never actually will.

“I wasn't aware you could tell me what prosecutors I can assign.”

His tone has shifted somewhat. Jack is veering toward pissed. Though honestly everyone in the room is pissed.

Fiona rolls her eyes.

“You're going to pull a veteran litigator off of a high profile case just to put your friend's kid in another place to fail?”

One day he will ask her where she acquired the nerve. She's currently accusing the sitting DA, a man who could literally make everyone’s life a nightmare, of blatant nepotism and not even batting an eyelash. Today he is just going to appreciate that he's somehow on her good side.

“Another place,” McCoy half chokes, half laughs. “Excuse me Sergeant, but that is highly inflammatory.”

Which is exactly what she was going for.

“I handed the Ramirez case to SVU with the understanding they would do their utmost,” she clarifies. “They did. The person _you_ put in charge of hate crimes told a victim's family that hate crimes don't stick.”

Liv hadn't told him that part. Just that he'd made it clear he didn't agree with the legislation. He still doesn't understand why she wasn't pissed.

Jack folds his arms across his chest. “That was up to his discretion.”

“That may be, but he was wrong. What's worse is that you know it.” She leans forward almost imperceptibly. “Why are you trying to get him into my turf when he has fourteen other sex crimes he can refuse to prosecute?”

If Jack had the power to hold her in contempt he would. They're both about to say something unspeakably rude. He can't believe he's the calmest person in the room. If he let's her continue he's intentionally allowing Caesar to cross the Rubicon. 

“Fiona -” he tries before she cuts him off.

“I'm sorry,” she offers, not showing an ounce of regret, “but there is nothing that adding another prosecutor will help. I need judges on standby to get warrants. Rafael is perfectly capable.”

Another overwhelming vote of confidence in his abilities as an attorney.

Jack suddenly springs from the table, as if to say he is done with this discussion.

“I am assigning Peter Stone to this case.”

It's only as he turns and looks at Fiona's face that he realizes McCoy has fallen for a carefully laid trap.

She's suddenly, inexplicably calm. He has no idea what she's going for but he's honestly a little terrified.

“You do that,” she offers smoothly, tapping her nails against the table. “And you're never getting elected again.”

That's met with an eyebrow raise. “Is that a threat with an audience?”

“An observation,” she nods, nonplussed. “Did you know you prosecute men of color three times more than white men?”

This was certainly not where he thought the political tack would go. He doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but it could be, and that’s enough of a problem for Jack that he doesn’t throw her out of his office.

He at least has the self-respect not to deny it.

“I don't see what that has to do with -”

“I'm not saying you're doing it intentionally,” she interrupts, making clear that's what she's implying. “Though I doubt it's something you'd want brought up in a primary. Especially given your office's penchant for calling ICE on defendants it can't convict.”

Earlier he thought she was referring to ICE’s increased tactic of courthouse arrests. If she has proof Jack McCoy is actually collaborating she’s absolutely correct that election will be difficult for him.

“It was only once.”

That’s not a defense that will work in an election and not really much of a defense at all.

“That you ordered. Do you not keep track of what your ADAs are doing?” She's implying negligence. They all know it. “Look Jack, I get that there are things you have to do to keep the peace that the general public isn't going to understand. Hell. I'm a cop. But if you take the only Hispanic EADA you have off a case to put your white buddy's kid in charge you might as well be signing your retirement paperwork. Your Melba Toast Friend Stone refused to pursue hate crime charges against a man who set a Dominican trans woman on fire while she was still alive because he doesn't believe in hate crimes. If you do this I won't even need to leave a trail of breadcrumbs for the Ledger to find how your wife liked to hire undocumented workers. The rules only apply when we need them to, I guess.”

Jack glares at her.

“I don't think I like what you're implying.”

Fiona isn't implying anything. She's making a promise, everything short of a threat. He doesn't know how she's got the know-how for this kind of political calculus, but if presented the incorrect way this will look very, very bad.

He’s not sure if it’s the incorrect way any more honestly.

“Oh _I'm_ not saying you're racist, Sir, just that your actions can be painted that way.”

“You really think the Commissioner wants you to get things done this way?”

“The commissioner wants to keep this case in house so he can keep his own job. He doesn't care about my methods and certainly not about whether you win elections,” she taunts, “If you insist on putting Peter Stone in charge I will call the Feds right now and make sure they take over. I’ll be the least of your problems then.”

They’re at a stalemate. Both glaring at each other as Jack considers his next move. Surprisingly, he parries, “You have notified the FBI at least though?”

Fiona scowls, “They're monitoring.”

“Then I guess we'll wait for you to find that needle, Sergeant.”

“Gotta find the haystack first.”

“Technically it's not a federal case until it crosses state lines anyway,” he muses.

Jack is wrong there. The US Code was amended back in 1982 to make it a federal crime to tamper with any consumer product. Ironically, or not, the impetus for that act was the last round of Tylenol deaths.

“It's product tampering.” He finally manages to find his voice and contribute to the conversation that has somewhat been about him the entire time.

“We don't know that,” Jack attempts. No one wants the FBI on this. It will look bad if they can't handle it. Then he tacks on a hasty, defeated, “Yet.”

“Johnson and Johnson agreed to let us in at corporate in Jersey,” Fiona offers a detail she had kept very close to the vest until now. She needs something. “I'm sending Reyes there now. But I might need your help for a warrant to make everything above board.”

McCoy laughs at her, “Now you need my help?”

“I'm not amused by it either but it's better for both of us if you help us out.”

“I might have an old colleague out there I can grease.” He offers, “I'll give Mr. Barba the details when they come through.

Great. Now he’s the middleman between his boss and his sergeant. He never thought he’d actually miss working sex crimes, but somehow homicide has become the side show. It's where the best and the brightest make names for themselves, but he's beginning to realize that means everyone wants a piece of the credit.

And much of the time that credit comes at the expense of the decedent.

Hell, even the term is a symptom of the hands off nature of this division. Forget not having names, forget being remembered only as a victim of a heinous crime, they aren't even afforded the luxury of remembrance.

Eight victims. All with names and families, dreams and hopes and fears. If this isn't homicide and just a series of horrible accidents, it's negligence. Criminal negligence.

He has a bad feeling, a deep pang in the pit of his stomach, that this is the furthest thing from an accident.

Either way, he's going to make sure their names are known.

* * *

Fiona insists on following him back to his office.

“Am I supposed to thank you for that back there?” He asks as she brushes past him to the chair in front of his desk.

The door is shut behind him before she responds.

“You wanted Peter Stone to take over?” She folds her arms.

“Absolutely not,” he rolls his eyes, crossing the room, “but I could have convinced my boss it was a bad idea without blackmail.”

“Blackmail requires money,” she defends lightly, grabbing a chair without sitting down.

He’s tired and annoyed and doesn’t want to get in an argument with her, but she has to know better than that.

“We both know it doesn't.”

“Okay,” she sighs, rattling her head “maybe I got a little carried away. But my intentions were honorable.”

“Your intentions were to keep yourself in control,” he scoffs.

“I don't trust Stone.” She offers as if it explains everything. He doesn't like Stone. He has no idea about trust.

“I couldn't say that to McCoy,” she continues with a rare valid point. “And I didn't say anything that wasn't true. Well, nothing that couldn't be true.”

If he had been doubting her choice of career before, and he hadn't, then this would have clinched it for him. She's a true detective. Even if it isn't provable doesn't mean you can't use it to your advantage.

“Listen, Fiona, Jack is not a bad man, he's just -”

“An old white guy doing his job.” She finishes for him. “I know, but the fact that he wants to take you off this case really makes me question his judgment.”

He's choosing to take that as a compliment rather than let it terrify him. He's not sure if one is a better idea than the other at this point.

“As long as you have it handled,” he states, trying to hide the sarcasm by settling into his chair. “Did you actually call the FBI?”

“Yes, but they haven't taken over because the commissioner called in a favor with the field office. He and Sakasian have an understanding.”

“You know we're going to have to hold a press conference soon anyway,” he mutters.

“A press conference where we say we know nothing and the mayor forces a task force on me sounds great,” she huffs sarcastically.

She's not wrong entirely, but the press conference is not just about the crime. It's about the victims of that crime. It's about making sure there aren't more victims to those crimes.

Whatever the crime actually is.

“If we don't soon it's going to look like a cover up,” he raises an eyebrow as she leaves the chair.

“Okay,” she begrudgingly agrees, “but can it wait until Reyes gets back?”

“Hopefully.”

Racing against the clock, he thinks as Masters saunters out. If there's another vic before Reyes gets back there's no way anyone can keep a lid on it.

In fact, he's genuinely surprised the media hasn't reported on the pattern yet.

* * *

By the time Jack gets anywhere it's after 5 and Reyes is treated to an all expenses-paid stay at the Holiday Inn Express - New Brunswick.

He's going to attempt to take the night off. Liv is supposed to be going out with the squad and asked him to help with Noah since Lucy has exams.

He had honestly welcomed the break because Noah was always good at taking his mind off of his job.

But when she opens the door he's not sure it's just a work get together with the squad. She's dressed like, well, she's going on a date. Hair pinned back and styled. Light jewelry with a dusting of makeup. More than she wears to work.

More than she wears around him, certainly.

Black dress with a skirt that ends just above her knees. If this is a work thing then she's certainly planning to look good for it.

He has no right to be jealous. They aren't anything. Two friends who got carried away and kept doing it for six months.

If she's finally dating then he's happy for her. He just wishes she would have told him. He just wishes he had the opportunity to stay on full time.

But he isn't. This is the best he's going to get and he has to enjoy that while it lasts.

Hell, this could be nothing.

“What?” she asks, tilting her head to the side and gesturing for him to come in already.

He feels like he's going to swallow his tongue.

“You look nice.”

He's expecting a snort or an argument but instead she pauses, and smiles. “Thank you.”

God he’s in love with her. But, she doesn’t want more from him. Never has.

Sometimes, when she looks at him like this - eyes all sparkly and crinkly, he allows himself to believe she might. Sometimes when she pulls him by the tie and giggles as she presses her mouth to his he lets himself think this isn’t just a temporary solution.

He even lets himself believe, sometimes when he’s buried inside of her, that the sounds will form into an “I love you.” They never do. They never will.

That’s why he won’t allow himself to say it. Sure, it’s in nearly everything he does - and if she ever asked, if anyone ever dared to call him on it, he wouldn’t be able to deny it.

But she won’t ask, so he won’t tell her.

If she wanted anything more than whatever this is she would have asked. He doesn’t have the stomach to destroy it himself.

“Momma,” Noah pierces his thoughts as he manages to enter the kitchen, “you have to go to your sleepover so me and Rafa can play dinosaurs.”

Sleepover? His brain jolts. He didn’t realize this would be an overnight gig.

Jesus Christ. They aren’t anything. He has no right to get mad.

“Not a sleepover, Sweet Boy,” she admonishes lightly, and he feels his lungs reflate. “But now I know where your loyalties lie,” she grins, kissing the top of his head.

“Yeah,” he states obviously, “with dinosaurs.”

“Okay, you'll be good for your Uncle Rafa then?” she laughs as Noah shakes his head wildly.

Uncle. Of course.

She makes her way to the door. Hand on the lock, “I’ll see you in the morning Sweet Boy.” 

“Bye Momma. Don’t break your shoe on stairs.” 

She searches his eyes, then darts to his lips. He smiles. “I’ve got him. You have a good time and we’ll be here when you get back.”

“Promise?”

He doesn’t quite know what she’s asking. It isn’t as if he would leave Noah by himself. That would defeat the logical purpose of watching him. He thinks she would trust him enough not to think that about him, but sometimes he isn’t so sure.

She’s asking something else. Something deeper. He just doesn’t know what it is exactly.

So he smiles back, tucking her hair behind her ear. Too intimate in front of the kid, he thinks. Too much for what this relationship actually is, but the smile doesn’t leave her face when he does it.

She's… infuriating, confusing, enchanting.

He has no way to not be in love with her.

“Promise.”

He hopes it isn’t empty. He intends to give her whatever she wants. Even when he isn’t sure what that is.

She nods her head, thinking over something, then shakes it out as if to get rid of it. Reaching behind her to unlock the door and walk out of it.

He really does hope she has fun, he thinks, watching the lock turn. He knows she trusts him to lock the door himself, but if doing it herself gives her some peace, then he won’t read into it.

He won’t read into that moment where she let him gaze at her like a dumb teenager. And he certainly won’t read into that look at his mouth before she darted out the door.

He isn’t a stupid man.

If he were a stupid man he’d think she’d wanted him to kiss her goodnight.

But that isn’t what they’re doing. Never has been. Never will be.

* * *

Noah plays dinosaurs and instructs him on how to put together a robot. He’s really worried Momma is going to break her shoe. She can’t run after bad guys if she breaks her shoe.

He thinks Noah has been watching Cinderella and hearing too many stories from Carisi. He makes up something about shoe pattern analysis and weight distribution that just bores the kid.

So he lets Noah help make spaghetti on a non-spaghetti night (Momma approved, he promises.).

It’s only after he’s washed the dishes and taken his bath and brushed his teeth that he puts Noah to bed. He insists on a bedtime story, so he reads him "If you Give a Mouse a Cookie." They should go to another one, but it's Noah's favorite.

"Rafa," Noah asks as he puts the book on his nightstand.

“Yeah?” he smiles.

“You love my Momma, right?”

He never thought the person to call him out would be a six year old. And he doesn’t know the angle, but true to himself, he isn’t able to deny it.

“Yes,” he manages a smile, pressing a light kiss to his forehead, “and I love you too.”

“Okay,” he nods, turning over with Eddie in his arms.

He’s surprised to find he’s not lying when he says it. He’s surprised to find it actually feels nice to say out loud.

But he isn’t going to tell her. There are even more consequences to that than he had anticipated.

* * *

It’s the lock turning that jolts him awake, and he’s too drowsy to really react to the the light. What he does react to is the fact that she’s not alone.

“Oh,” Peter Stone, looks him over, “I see you have a guest.”

It isn’t necessarily rude, but there’s something calculated about it. Something surprised and upset.

The man thought he was going to score tonight and he’s here to block the play. He’d smirk, but he isn't sure he's supposed to be blocking the play.

“I told you I had a babysitter,” she offers gently. A breezy tone that sails right into his gut.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting her to say, but it wasn’t that. He doesn’t know what they are, but friend I let sleep with me and watch my kid occasionally seems a little blunt, even for them.

“Right,” Peter furrows a brow, “well, tell the little one I’m sorry to have missed him and I will see you in the morning?”

The little one? As if he and Noah are best friends. Hell, maybe they are for all he knows. Olivia just nods, smiles, offers him a drink of water.

He doesn’t know what game she’s playing or what she’s trying to telegraph, but if she had punched him in the gut he would feel better.

“Thank you for a lovely dinner and welcome back from vacation Lieutenant, but I must be on my way,” he half bows as if he is in some sort of romance novel. “Nice to see you, Mr. Barba.”

He nods, offers him good luck on their latest case as he ushers him out the door. No use being a giant asshole when he’s the one who missed the cue. He’s the one who’s missed all the cues.

He’d convinced himself it was a work thing, and she’d just put on makeup and a dress because she felt like it, but that wasn’t the full story. She’d asked him to watch Noah to go on a not-date.

And the only reason she made him promise to be there when she got home was so she didn’t have to tell him.

At least all that literature in undergrad taught him how to read the signs when he couldn’t read the room. When to make his exit.

“He went down after the first story, so he might be tired enough that you won’t wake him if you go in there,” he offers, moving toward the chair where his jacket is.

“Give a Mouse a Cookie again?” she smiles.

“I’ve been trying to move on to others,” he swings the jacket around his shoulders, “but alas, he’s attached.”

“Did you just say alas out loud?” she goads, slipping off the shoe Noah thought she’d break. In a normal time he’d tell her about that, but in a normal time he wouldn’t have a broken heart over a woman who he knew would never love him.

“Occupational hazard. Homicide testimony gives you a flair for the dramatic.”

“You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Possibly,” he laughs, toeing on his shoes as she removes her jacket. “I’ll see you spaghetti night.”

“What?”

“Right, no,” he swallows, way to invite yourself over, jackass. “Call me next time you need a babysitter.”

He nearly loses his breath forcing it out of his mouth, but he does manage to get it out without sounding pissed. Because he’s not.

He’s barely even surprised.

She, however, is. To a point he doesn’t understand.

“I thought we’d share some scotch.”

Scotch would lead to declarations of things she doesn’t want. Scotch would lead to things he’s no longer allowed to have. Things he never should have let himself want in the first place.

“Maybe next time,” he pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s late, Liv.”

It isn’t until he shuts the door behind him that he realizes it’s only 9 pm.

Peter Stone gets the approval and the girl. Maybe Fiona was right about him stealing his life. It was never his life to steal.

Time to focus on the only thing he's actually good at - making sure the law bends further toward Justice. The first step toward that is preparing for that press conference.

The first step is learning the names. No, the first step is getting the fuck over himself. Then he can do the real work.

So he goes home, pours over paperwork, pictures and the squad's flawless reports. He knows how he is going to nail the son of a bitch to the wall. That is, once they find the son of a bitch.

Once they confirm he exists.

He can't bring himself to pour the scotch. It reminds him too much of Liv, of the things he's lost, of things that will never be. It reminds him he'll never be good enough for her and it's just as well he never told her. It's just as well he never got that steak dinner. He's been far too selfish for too long. 

Peter Stone is not going to take this case away from him, too. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dodges tomatoes*  
> *The undocumented worker thing is a real plot point involving a nanny from season 19 of Law and Order proper. It has the potential to mess up both the case of the week and Jack's political chances. This wasn't necessarily brought in to say that Jack is prejudiced against people of color, just that it's very much something a person like Fiona could use against him if they wanted.

**Author's Note:**

> *The '82 Chicago case mentioned is based on the Chicago Tylenol Murders, which left 7 people dead and is largely the reason bottles of OTC pain killers have tamper-resistant packaging.


End file.
